commencing onslaught of shitty love/self-depricating poems.

it's about that time again, believe it's well overdue
to write another hundred shitty poems about how bad it is to be you.
complain loudly about how you wish to stop gnawing at your fingers
or how you break down every time you find a place her scent still lingers
and how all the thoughts of joy which once swam peacefully through your head
were replaced abruptly by dreams of how badly you wish you were dead.
forever seeming to lose grasp on that to which you tightly cling,
always finding the most effective ways to completely ruin everything.
hack haphazardly at the wiring of your brain for it be hastily rearranged
into the form of a cage which may finally keep your melancholy contained.
holding tightly onto the broken heart and wheezing lungs you harbour,
keeping your fragile, brittle bones hidden deep within your armours
and mending the faults along the few that have already cracked.
constantly referring to yourself in the third person to try and lessen the impact
that you'll never be more than a victim of fucking circumstance
because you're far too fucking cowardly to ever take a chance.
this type of sicken behaviour will only ever lead you to being alone.
the mastermind behind the manhattan project of chances fucking blown.